


a moment of rest upon the wind (and another soul shall bare me)

by ASweetLullaby



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Canon Compliant, F/M, is this just an excuse for me to write a bunch of underdeveloped AUs and not finish any? yes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:01:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25960978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASweetLullaby/pseuds/ASweetLullaby
Summary: Across four different lifetimes, Zuko and Katara find each other and fall in love.Or:The Zutara Reincarnation AU that no one asked for.
Relationships: Iroh/tea, Katara/Zuko (Avatar), background MaiLee later, implied Sokka/Suki
Comments: 59
Kudos: 217





	a moment of rest upon the wind (and another soul shall bare me)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, all! This is my first Zutara fic. It contains four lifetimes total, all of which are contained within this oneshot. 
> 
> I was inspired by an amazing Bellarke fanfic called "How You Stay Alive" by @LaughingSenselessly. (I did get some formatting/dialogue ideas from that fic, especially towards the very beginning, but everything else is entirely my own creation.)
> 
> If anyone wants me to expand upon any of these lifetimes--or introduce more into the mix--I'd be more than happy to do so.

Though she’s tried to deny it, Katara has always been one to believe in superstition.

Aang always teased her about it during their life together—told their children, their grandchildren—that try though she might, his wife simply refused to stop believing in magic. His lighthearted ribbing was always one of the things Katara missed most after his passing.

She’d known her whole life that the Avatar cycle had to continue, that he would die to carry on the endless cycle of reincarnation. Nevertheless, it didn’t make his passing any easier. 

She spent two long years alone. 

Then, when she turned seventy, the former Fire Lord came to visit for the first time. 

Zuko decided to spend his post-abdication life traveling; one of his visits brought him back to the Southern Water Tribe. Back to Katara.

He spent weeks there with her during that first visit. The two played pai sho, took meals together, and had an endless stream of conversation flowing between them. The _remember when-s_ turned into earnest conversations by candlelight about the lives they led as adults. Katara found herself opening up about the small, private part of mind that was embittered by the Avatar cycle. Zuko, in turn, told her how difficult it could be raising Izumi when he and Mai were always so volatile with one another.

Katara realized that, even in spite of the time and distance, they never stopped understanding one another on an innate level. They still accepted each other unflinchingly. The good with the bad. 

After that first visit, Katara invited him back as often as he could make it. Now that she’d finally had his company back—now that she’d finally realized how good it felt to have him in her life again—she grew antsy without him. They started writing letters to one another to fill the gaps in between visits.

When he was eighty-seven and she was eighty-five, their relationship shifted again. They’d been sitting in Katara’s house, playing a particularly competitive game of pai sho, when Zuko suddenly set his plate of seal jerky aside. He picked up the white lotus tile. Eyed it thoughtfully.

“I loved you,” he said, his tone conversational, “back when we were teenagers.”

Katara’s world promptly stopped spinning on its axis. Never one to be caught off-guard, however, Katara managed to keep her voice just as light as his had been.

“So why start a relationship with Mai?”

His eyes slid up to hers.

“As a former traitor, it was already difficult enough for me to consolidate power, restore peace, and attempt to dismantle decades of ethnocentric propaganda. Mai was the only option that wouldn’t end in an immediate coup. She was Fire Nation nobility. The daughter of a renowned warrior. The niece of a prison warden. She gave my reign a sense of stability and legitimacy that it would have otherwise lost.”

Zuko continued speaking, his voice steady even as his gaze grew nostalgic.

“I loved her too, of course, but it was different. Partially because _she_ was different. And partially because I’ll always have a special place in my heart for my first love. For the first person to see both who I was and who I wanted to be, and who accepted every version of myself.”

If they’d been younger, Katara might have yelled at him. She would have flung the pai sho board to the ground. She would have told him that what he was saying was unfair, and selfish, and impossible. In the heat of the moment, she probably would’ve asserted that she’d never felt the same way about him.

(The two of them always did have a penchant for the dramatic.)

This is what Katara did instead: she reached across the table and placed her hand over his.

“I understand,” she spoke, her voice soft, “and while I don’t regret the life I shared with Aang—just as I’m sure you don’t regret yours with Mai—I’ve always held a special place for you in my heart, too.”

The former Fire Lord’s eyes widened. “You mean—”

“I loved you too, Zuko.” 

The words came out easier than she ever imagined they might. The former Fire Lord froze. Then, a moment later, he turned his palm over, taking her hand in his. His grip was impossibly gentle.

“I don't know if I would undo the past, were the circumstances the same,” he said, careful, “but we’re both here in the present.”

“Indeed,” she replied, and laced her fingers through his.

It was a new beginning for them both.

___ 

Somewhere in the Si Wong Desert, Katara stops her giant rhinoceros beetle at the entrance of a dark cave. The travel had not been kind to her—at eighty-nine years old, even traveling by boat has left her worse for wear—but she is desperate.

Much like Aang before him, Zuko had grown accustomed to Katara’s unerring belief in superstition and teased her relentlessly for it. 

Her belief now faces the ultimate test.

She jumps off the rhinoceros beetle and hurries to the wheeled cart that it’s been dragging along. There’s a mound on the cart. It’s covered by a white shroud, though the shroud billows around the edges as though the harsh winds might rip it away at any moment. She stares at the mound, heart lurching in her chest, then turns around. It takes every ounce of her willpower to proceed towards the mouth of the cave. 

No sooner does she step inside than a voice calls out to her from the darkness.

“Katara of the Southern Water Tribe,” it greets, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Katara steels herself.

“I come to ask a favor.”

There’s a sharp gust of wind—so sharp that Katara raises her arms to shield her face from the sand swirling around her—and then the cave is bathed in firelight.

The witch’s mouth splits open into a wide grin. She looks impossibly young, though her eye sockets sink deep into her skull. Ceremonial adornments from each of the four nations cover her person. 

“A favor,” she hums, intrigued. “Tell me, waterbender: what would you have me do?”

Katara takes a deep breath and then turns back to the cart behind the rhinoceros beetle. She gently removes the white shroud and reveals the face of the man hidden underneath it. He’s all pale skin, white hair, and a long scar stretching down the half of his face.

For all her power, the witch still seems astonished at the man laid before her.

“The Fire Lord,” the witch breathes, and it’s an almost reverent thing. “I hadn’t realized the rumors were true.”

“He was sick,” Katara confirms, her voice wavering, “and I tried healing him. It never took. It was during that time that I had started hearing rumors about you. Those rumors suggest you might be able to bring him back.”

The witch turns a skeptical eye towards the waterbender, but Katara’s gaze is still locked on the pallor of Zuko’s face.

“Why do you believe I could save him after you’ve failed? You’re one of the world’s best healers.” The witch’s tone is flat.

“I know what you’re capable of,” Katara spits, losing her composure for a moment. An image of her at fourteen—cold and embittered, standing in front of Yon Ra—springs to the forefront of her mind. “Don’t you dare play games with me.”

The witch sneers. “Fine. Let’s say I bring him back. How shall I cash in on my favor?”

“I’ll owe you a life debt.”

Much to Katara’s dismay, the witch waves a dismissive hand in the air.

“We both know you’re not long for this world, my dear. Tell me this instead, then: why does he matter so much to you?”

Katara blinks.

“I love him,” she murmurs, simple. “I love him, and I miss him. It’s unfair that we never got the chance to share a life together—that the one time we were finally able to be together, he dies a few years in.”

The hard glint in the witch’s eyes fades. She regards Katara curiously.

“An odd pairing,” the witch replies, “but alright. Ask of me _exactly_ what you want, waterbender.”

“I want Zuko to live again,” Katara repeats, casting a glance at the former Fire Lord’s cold body.

“Live again, hm?”

“Yes.”

“Done.”

Katara’s heart beats wildly in her chest. She places a shaking hand to his neck, feels for his pulse—but nothing has changed. She turns back to the witch, enraged, but the witch simply gives her a coy grin.

“He will live again,” she says, “although perhaps in another time. Another place. Reincarnated, much like the Avatar—though without the perks and powers that come along with being the Avatar, I suppose. Now ask me what I want.”

Katara can't think straight. 

“How _dare_ you—” 

“Now ask me what _I_ want.”

The words leave Katara in a dangerous snarl. “What. Do. You. Want?”

“I want you to live again, too. I want you to meet him, to fall in love, to get married. To do it properly.”

Katara barks out a humorless laugh. “How could something as simple as that possibly appeal to you?”

The witch shrugs. 

“I suppose we’ll see,” she says, a twinkle in her eye. “but I will tell you this: I do not meddle in matters of the heart. The two of you will meet again, but the exact nature of your relationship is exclusively up to you.”

So, Katara leaves.

She brings Zuko’s body back to the Fire Nation and attends his burial. Returns to the Southern Water Tribe. Trains Korra, when the girl passes through.

After three more years, Katara dies too.

And their story truly begins.

___________

_“Love doesn’t make the world go ‘round. Love is what makes the ride worthwhile.”_

~ Franklin P Jones

____________

1467: JAPAN

Her name is Himesayo Katsura. 

She grows up hearing stories about how her family was once blessed by the goddess Kannon. Her parents desperately wanted to conceive a child and, as legend has it, Kannon heard their prayers and made it so. In fact, she was so moved by their piety that she bestowed upon them two children—Katsura and Sokatomo. 

Both Katsura and Sokatomo are held in high regard by those in their village.

Of course, it helps that her father is a powerful daimyo. As the daughter of one of Japan’s most prominent Lords, Katsura learns to defend herself at an early age. 

She is only three years old when her father hands her a small wooden chokuto and starts teaching her how to fence. As she grows, she spends most of her time practicing her swordsmanship with Sokatomo. Her mother, Kiya, puts Katsura to bed each night with parables paraphrased from the Lotus Sutra. She weaves majestic stories, legends she’s memorized and embellished from the eight scrolls.

When Katsura turns four, her father becomes sick. Her family invites shaman after shaman in—and spends most of the wealth they had accrued—in attempts to treat the Lord’s mysterious illness. 

In spite of their best efforts, and in spite of how often Katsura and Sokatomo pray to Kannon, Katsura’s father dies within the year. The stories surrounding Katsura and her family start changing. They are no longer quasi-royalty; they are human, mortal, _touchable._

She is twelve years old when she starts going to the marketplace for her mother. The market is only available one week out of each month, so Katsura feels a special kind of joy when she’s sent. The lights, colors and smells that swirl around her are a rare and treasured thing. The sudden newness of it all makes her feel alive.

The chance to escape the whispers of her neighbors puts her at ease.

One week in particular, her mother has given her just enough to treat their family—a small something for Kiya, a small something for Sokatomo, and a small something for herself. Katsura is wholly unsure of what to do with the newfound power. 

She spots a boy that looks about her age. She takes in the red silk robes he’s wearing. The awkward way he’s standing. He looks harmless enough, she thinks, and so she decides to ask him for his opinion. 

He’s standing in front of a pottery shop, twiddling his thumbs. 

“Good afternoon,” she says, and he startles. 

When he turns to face her, she realizes that he’s pretty. Not to say that she hasn’t seen many pretty boys in her region, but he’s pretty in a peculiar way. Smooth pale skin, hair raven and rough-textured, a jagged red scar that covers half of his face, and eyes that are wide and gold. 

There’s a pause before he responds.

“Good afternoon.” The rasp of his voice is another peculiar, lovely thing. Katsura doesn’t dwell on it for longer than a moment; her mission is too important.

“If I might briefly interrupt your day,” she says, “I was hoping you might help me find a gift for my brother. He’s about your age, and I’m having trouble deciding which of two chokuto swords to get him.”

“I’m surprised you would know enough to have narrowed it down to even two,” he says, but his tone is all amused curiosity. 

She bares her teeth at him in a vague approximation of a grin.

“That belief would be misguided, my Lord.”  
—

Katsura has a new reason to be excited whenever she goes to the market, and it’s all courtesy of the boy with the red scar. 

She sees him every week as she goes to the market. The first few times, it’s happenstance. After that, she starts seeking him out. 

She knows he tends to gravitate towards the pottery, so she almost always finds him crouched in front of one of the china merchants’ wares. She usually grabs his forearm—a far cry from the decorum they’re supposed to display, at least as members of their station—and drags him off towards the swordsmith.

They watch as Lady Tadao sets steel on fire, the orange and yellow flames licking up towards the sky and blazing high before them. They watch as she brings her hammer down the softened metal, shaping it into her own creations. Each and every sword is a thing of beauty—an intricately-carved masterpiece—and Katsura and the boy often spend the greater part of an hour watching her bend metal into beautiful weaponry. 

It’s during one of these sessions that he tells her his name.

“They call me Katsuchiyo,” he says, “because my family believes it will bring me an auspicious future. To be named after ‘victories and success.’”

She passes him a rice cake, her eyes fixed on Lady Tadao’s sword of the day.

“They call you Katsuchiyo,” she repeats, “but what is your actual name?”

The boy seems startled. 

“Why would you want to know that? Nobody calls me by it.”

Katsura shrugs, turns her gaze towards him. 

“I think it would be nice to know you,” she states, simple, “and if your real name is so rarely used, that’s even better. A name that only I can call you by.”

The boy openly stares at her. Then, before his mind seems to catch up to what his mouth is doing, he tells her.

“My name is Hatakeyama Rokuzo.”

“Rokuzo,” she says, tasting the name on her tongue. She decides that it’s sweet—like the azuki beans her mother prepares as dessert sometimes. Something in his gaze shifts at how she says it. “It’s nice to meet you. My name is Himesayo Katsura.”

The boy nods slowly, then blinks and adds, “Katsura. Nice to meet you.”

For some strange reason, her heart stutters when she hears her name on his lips. Instead of analyzing it, though, she turns back to watch Lady Tadao engrave a lotus into the hilt of a sword.

The silence that follows is comfortable.

_____

She meets him, again and again. One day, several months in, she takes him to her estate. She unceremoniously presents him to her mother.

“Katsura,” her mother says, scandalized, “you should have told me you were planning on having a guest over! I’m sorry we don’t have a meal waiting for you both.”

The corner of Rokuzo’s lips turn up into a small smile. Katsura stares at him, enraptured the way she becomes every time he smiles. It’s a rare thing. She wishes he would do it more. She wishes she were the reason why just as much.

“I can help prepare supper,” he offers, his voice hesitant, “if you’d like. My father is a warrior, and he’s often away to defend our nation. I’ve had to learn how to cook some.”

Katsura’s even more dumbstruck than she was before. Her mother, however, looks dismayed.

“What about your mother, dear?”

Something in the air shifts.

Rokuzo swallows thickly, looking down at the floor. Katsura realizes before he even says it. She recognizes the look of grief on his face as well as she feels it within her own heart.

“She passed,” he pauses, then adds, “I can only hope that our prayers for Amitabha to take her to the Pureland were answered.”

Katsura’s mother leans down to look him in the eye—something that would normally feel diminutive, but it doesn’t this time—and says, “I’m sure she’s with Amitabha now. And I’m sure they’re both very proud of you.”

Rokuzo nods, though Katsura notes with a muted sort of horror that there are unshed tears sparkling in his eyes. As he stands there, face wavering, Katsura is struck by how much he looks like a child. How lost he seems. 

“I need to apologize,” he interjects, “I know my father would be angry to know that I still feel this way. I can only imagine that you must be similarly horrified. It’s improper for me to be so emotional; I haven’t done anything like this in a long time. I promise.”

Katsura waits until he’s done babbling, then puts what she hopes is a comforting hand on his shoulder. His wide eyes flash towards her. 

“The loss of a parent,” she muses, “that’s something we have in common.”

She doesn’t know why she says it. Only that the words feel right coming out of her mouth. Rokuzo stills at the confession.

Then, slowly, he slides his hand over hers. He clings to it like a lifeline. 

Katsura’s heart melts and breaks all at once. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, and his voice sounds as sincere as she’s ever heard it, “I wish things were different for the both of us.” 

Something like understanding settling between them.

The moment is broken entirely when Sokatomo’s voice echoes from further inside of the house.  
“When’s supper?”

Katara glances away from Rokuzo’s face, scowling.

“It’ll happen sooner if you _actually help out_ ,” she yells back. Although Katsura’s mother reprimands her for the outburst, she does so with a small smile on her face.

____

For the next two years, Katsura and Rokuzo become closer still. They act as confidantes for one another. Katsura thinks that he’s maybe the only real friend she has, outside of Sokatomo. 

He visits her as often as they meet at the markets. This is perfectly ordinary for them. What’s also become ordinary to her is her growing attraction to Rokuzo.

It’s never something she’s ever confessed outright, but it colors all of her actions.

The furtive glances she steals when they’re laying amongst the flowers together. How close she sits when they eat. The way she’s free with her affection towards him, always finding some excuse or another to touch him. The way she listens attentively to all of his military training stories, even though she has far more interest in the politics of war than the mechanics of battle.

She’s straightened his robes or mussed his hair more times than she can count, and yet each time she does, it’s like he’s frozen to the spot. He does _nothing,_ a faint blush coloring his cheeks instead, and Katsura is miserable because he clearly doesn’t feel the same way.

Sokatomo laughs when she whines about it to him. “You’re being ridiculous,” he always says, but refuses to elaborate on why. It worsens Katsura’s mood all the more.

She can’t talk to her mother about it, either; now that she’ll be turning fifteen, Katsura is starting to field marriage prospects. Her mother tells her that she’ll always let her have the final say, but Katsura isn’t so sure. 

She doesn’t want to marry anyone yet—can’t see herself marrying anyone except Rokuzo, though at this rate she doesn’t think she’ll ever tell him that—but she knows her family’s financial situation is declining by the day.

They might still technically be honorable, the family of a fallen daimyo, but technicalities do not come into play during their daily lives. Katsura knows she would be incredibly fortunate to marry someone of a comparable station.

She knows she cannot afford to be picky for much longer. An advantageous marriage is not about love. It’s about survival.

Nevertheless, her heart longs for one person only.

It’s pathetic.

____

They’re sprawled out in her garden together. It’s the one day a week Rokuzo doesn’t have to deal with training (although he’d practiced for hours this morning nonetheless), so they lay amongst the flowers instead.

Rokuzo stares up at the sky, pointing out different shapes he sees in the clouds. 

Katsura snorts at some of his more inventive ones — _no seriously, Katsura, how can you not see a dragon right there? That’s its head, and over there’s its tail_ — and shares some of her own.

They while away so much of the afternoon just like this. 

He’s funny, Katsura thinks, in a quiet but surprising way. He’s funny and he’s creative, empathetic and warm. As much as he was cold and awkward during their first meeting (and as much as he still is, sometimes, whenever the topic of duty and honor and family comes up), he’s still one of the sweetest joys in her life.

With every new shape in the sky, he solidifies his spot as her favorite person just a little bit more.

Their afternoon ends when the sun starts setting overhead. 

Upon seeing the sky tinge with orange and pink, Rokuzo bolts upright. 

“I need to leave,” he says, and his tone is growing increasingly urgent with every word. “I need to go home immediately.”

“Spirits, Rokuzo, what’s wrong?”

His eyes are panicked.

“I didn’t realize how late it was. My father is home, and he’s having guests over for dinner this evening.”

Katsura’s brow furrows. “Can’t you just skip the dinner?”

She knows it would be improper—knows enough about Rokuzo’s father to know how unyielding, how cold he can be—but they’d been having such a good day together. She doesn’t want it to end.

“No,” Rokuzo says, scrambling up to his feet. “I’m supposed to be there. The company’s meant for me.”

It dawns on her. “A marriage prospect?”

He nods. 

It feels as though someone has dumped a bucket of ice water over her head. Something ugly grows in her gut as he slides his shoes on, and it’s made worse by the fact that he’s utterly oblivious to her anger.

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to miss that,” she all but snarls. 

Rokuzo finally notices the expression on her face. His frantic movements still.

“Why are you looking at me like that, all of a sudden?”

“Like what?”

“Like you want me dead.”

“Obviously, I don’t want that.”

“What’s wrong, then?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t have time for games, Katsura,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just tell me what’s wrong so we can work this out and I can leave.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

“What’s _wrong,”_ she shoots back, “is that your father is setting up marriage prospects for you because he needs to. Because you spend most of your free time with the daughter of a dead daimyo instead of meeting people you could actually marry.”

Rokuzo’s eyes darken. When he speaks again, his voice is frigid.

“If you didn’t want me to spend so much time with you, you should’ve just said so.” 

“That’s not what I meant!” She knows her voice is tinged with panic. She can’t find it in herself to care; she _has_ to make sure he knows. 

“What else could you have possibly meant, Katsura?”

She meets his gaze head-on. 

“I meant that I’m jealous.” 

Rokuzo is only confused for a moment. Then he gapes at her, like she’s gone insane. His voice is a small, quiet thing when he speaks again.

“What do you expect me to say to that?”

“I don’t know.” Katsura wishes the earth would swallow her whole.

“Katsura,” he says, his voice breaking on her name, “my father expects me to marry a certain kind of woman—to produce an heir with her—as soon as I can. I need to find an acceptable wife before I’m sent to die in whatever battle comes next.”

“And I’m not an acceptable woman.” She says it like the fact that it is, and takes no joy in the way his eyes shine with unshed tears.

“You would’ve been, if your father were still alive. Maybe even if your family still had money.”

“None of that is true, though.”

“I know.”

She takes a deep breath. “So, you have to quit wasting your time with me. Go back home.”

“Katsura—” 

“Just go.”

____

She stops going to the market after that. As much as it hurts her to send Sokatomo in her stead, she knows it’s the best thing to do. She tries to get on with her life, but she thinks of Rokuzo often. Whenever her brother says something particularly stupid, she makes a note to tell Rokuzo later, only to remember that they’re no longer on speaking terms. On the days she knows he doesn’t have training, she waits outside in the gardens for him, only to realize that he won’t be joining her.

She’s irrationally angry whenever she sees shapes in clouds. She’s sad when she thinks about how many swords Lady Tadao must have made at the market in her absence.

But it’s better off this way.

_____

“Listen,” Sokatomo tells her one day, a few months later, “I’ve never wanted to get involved in your love life.”

“So don’t,” Katsura says, annoyance already tinging her voice.

Her brother disregards her comment entirely. Of course he does.

“I’ve seen Katsuchiyo around the marketplace a lot lately. He doesn’t look like himself anymore.” 

Katsura examines her cuticles, wondering how this person named Katsuchiyo could possibly be relevant to her life. Then, she realizes: Rokuzo. Katsuchiyo is his nickname.

“Why should I care? We’re not friends anymore.”

Sokatomo arches an eyebrow at her, unimpressed. 

“Right,” he agrees, “and I think that’s why he’s so sad. You should go to the market this week. Make peace with him.”

Katsura, petulant as ever, stares straight ahead. But Sokatomo isn’t finished.

“They’re saying that a civil war is going to break out in our region soon. The battle for control of Kyoto has inspired people across the country to fight.” For the first time in years, Sokatomo seems worried. 

Any annoyance Katsura had felt fades into concern at the look in her brother’s eyes. 

“I’ve heard that the fighting has spread,” she says, her voice soft, “but I didn’t realize it was anywhere close to us. Things still seem normal here.”

“They won’t be for long,” he sighs, and sounds like a promise he wishes he could break. “When the time comes, we’ll all have to fight. We could all _die._ Wouldn’t you rather make peace with him before then, just in case?”

She leans her head against his shoulder as she thinks about it. Sokatomo’s arm immediately wraps around her torso. He tugs her in for a hug—a rare display of affection that, for some reason, makes tears spring to her eyes.

“You’re right.”

_____

When Katsura goes to the marketplace three days later, she realizes that her brother’s suspicions are correct. Rokuzo stands idly by a pottery merchant, eyes downcast. He’s not animated, not curious, not even aware of his surroundings. 

He looks more like the cautious, guarded fifteen-year-old boy she’d met two years ago than the warm, caring young man she knows now. The idea that she had something to do with that transformation makes her heart ache.

She’s considering how she might best approach him when he glances up.

And he sees her. 

For a moment, they both freeze—and then he starts striding towards her with a renewed sense of purpose. 

Katsura starts to panic immediately. By the time he reaches her, though, all he has to say is, “I want to show you something.” 

He sticks out his hand. She takes it wordlessly, and then they’re off. 

Katsura can hear the whispers around them, can feel the prying eyes of her neighbors zeroing in on them. Katsura can’t bring herself to care. _They’re holding hands._

He continues to guide her through the crowd, dodging merchants’ carts, ducking in and out of throngs of people. When they’re finally out of the marketplace, he shepherds her into a secluded alleyway in the middle of the village. 

It takes a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the cool darkness of the alley, the shade in between houses offering a welcome reprieve from the sun. Katara smells adzuki beans cooking through a nearby window, the scent so warm and sweet it comforts her right away.

He still hasn’t let go of her hand.

She meets his eyes.

“I’ve missed you,” he blurts out, without much preamble. “And I’ve been thinking for months about what I’d do and what I’d say when I finally saw you again. I thought about going to your estate so many times, but each time I saw Sokatomo at the marketplace, I realized that you probably still didn’t want anything to do with me. Which I understand. I didn’t want to pressure you. But I still haven’t found a wife yet—even though I’m gearing up for a battle that’ll start any day now—and I think that’s because no one I’ve met is anything like you. I don’t see a happy future with anyone but you. And I’ve decided that I don’t care what my father thinks about it, because my sister’s always been the favorite child anyway, so.”

The air leaves her lungs.

“Rokuzo,” she breathes, but he holds up a shaky hand to stop her. 

“Just one more thing,” he says, and pulls a sheathed chokuto out from his silk robes. He puts it in her hand.

She accepts the gift, confusion evident on her face. She unsheathes the sword. 

Katsura knows at once that this must be Lady Tadao’s work. The steel blade glints in the setting sun, a beautiful and deadly thing all at once. On the hilt of the chokuto, right against where she’d rest her wrist, is an inscription: _two bodies, one heart._

She meets his gaze. Sheathes the blade again. 

Her heart is soaring. The only way she can possibly hope to express what she’s feeling is to close the distance between them and put her hand on his cheek.

Rokuzo takes the hint. His arms wrap around her waist, tugging her even tighter against him. She lets the sword fall to the ground, winding her arms around his neck.

His lips are soft and warm against hers. It’s better than she’d ever imagined it could be; he’s here, and he’s real, and he’s _perfect._ One of her hands winds its way into the ends of his hair. The way his thumb strokes her hip is impossibly tender. She sighs, deliriously happy, and the sound is swallowed up by his mouth.

And then something happens.

A burst of white light appears behind her eyelids—impossibly bright, a supernova exploding. She wrenches herself away from him and opens her eyes.

Rokuzo’s staring back at her, stunned into silence. 

Only it’s not Rokuzo. It’s Zuko. 

And Zuko is alive. Improbably, impossibly, unbelievably _alive._

Her eyes roam the stark planes of his face, the awe in his eyes. When he finally speaks again, the all-too-familiar rasp of his voice makes her heart _sing._

“Katara?”

“Hi, Zuko,” she breathes, and she surges up to kiss him again. He meets her halfway.

After a moment, he pulls away—not far, though. Never too far away. He leans his forehead against hers.

“How am I here? How is this real?” His voice is ragged.

“I made a deal with a witch,” she responds, automatic, “it’s really not that important.”

At his noise of disbelief, she adds, “I wanted you to live, and she accepted on the condition that I also live again. Now we’re here. We’re in a world without bending—I don’t know if it became obsolete, or extinct, or has gone underground, or what—but we’re here. We have a second chance.”

They both take this information in.

Katara doesn’t feel too different now that she remembers; she’s still very much invested in this life. Her plans for the future haven’t changed at all. She doesn’t think any of Rokuzo—of Zuko’s imminent plans—have changed either, for better or for worse.

What has changed, however, is the feeling in her chest when she looks at him. It’s shifted from an infatuation into something deeper. Judging by the way he’s looking at her, she thinks he feels the same. 

But then a cloud of emotion settles over his face, and he leans away from her.

“You never asked me,” he says, something almost like hurt coloring his tone, “How could you make a decision like that without even asking me?”

“You might have been okay with dying,” she shoots back, “but after losing everyone else we’ve loved, and after we’d just started to build our lives together, I couldn’t say goodbye to you yet.”

He opens his mouth. Before he can say anything, though, they’re both startled by the sound of swords clashing in the marketplace.

“The civil war’s reached our region. We have to go.”

_____

Katsura runs back to her family’s estate as fast as her legs can carry her. 

Past lives, Zuko, deals made in deserts—none of it matters with the threat of an uprising. Katsura hears the sounds of war starting, and it _terrifies_ her. The only thing she cares about right now is keeping her family safe. It’s harder to run fast with a sword in her hand, but she’s infinitely grateful she has one to protect herself with.

She doesn’t stop running until she finds Sokatomo.

Wearing one of their father’s silk robes, Sokatomo is in the process of strapping two swords to his back. Their mother stands nearby, her mouth set in a grim line. 

“Well, Katsura,” Sokatomo says, his tone rueful, “you’ve always wanted to be a warrior.”

He tosses her one of their father’s old swords. She catches it with her free hand.

Then, just on the edge of town, the screaming starts.

_____

By the time the first rebels make it to Katsura’s family estate, she and Sokatomo are more than ready for them. One of the fighters approaches her from the left. She sidekicks him so hard that he stumbles to the ground, dazed. The ringing of swords around them quickens to a constant rattle.

Three more approach. She has no time to think; instead, the way she moves is instinctive. Graceful. Just as she used to fight—only, instead of water, she wields steel instead.

She ducks her head as one of the fighters swings for her neck. She drops to the ground and sweeps his feet out from under him. He falls back into one of his friends, and they both go down together. The third fighter attempts to tackle her while she’s down, so she unsheathes one of the swords from the holster on her back and slices his chest open. She feels his blood—hot and sticky—spray across her skin. The man’s eyes widen in shock. He sinks to the grass, alive but out of commission.

None of the combatants are nearly as prepared as she is. A few manage to land some blows against her—one even slaps her so hard that she tastes blood—but Katsura is always quicker. Angrier. More efficient.

She and Sokatomo work back-to-back, relieving fighters of their weaponry and running them thorough with their swords. 

At the end of it all, she and her family still standing. She looks around wildly, sees most of her neighbors are having similar luck.

If the region is going to devolve into civil war, it seems they’ve all but won the day’s battle. 

_____

By the time she and Sokatomo are able to rest and patch up their wounds, the sun has already set in the sky. She takes stock of what materials they might need to repair their estate after the day’s fighting, what tools around the grounds they can use as makeshift weapons should fighting break out again.

They don’t leave the grounds of their estate for the next few days, too concerned about the rising violence in the city. Rokuzo doesn’t come by, either. 

Katsura begins to worry. 

She prays to every spirit she can think of that he’s okay—that he and his family are safe. Once she sees him again, she’ll be able to explain everything. They’ll be able to talk, to fix all of their problems, to start over again.

After four days of silence, she gets restless. She arms herself with two swords and sets off for his village.

When she finally arrives, something like dread twists in her gut. The town is eerily quiet. There’s no fighting, not anymore; bodies line the walkways, and the stench of something rotten permeates the air. It’s enough to make her nauseous, but she keeps going. She needs to find Zuko.

After a few minutes of searching, she does.

He’s almost unrecognizable. His bloated body lies by the side of the road, a gaping wound gouged deep in his chest. There are thousands of tiny cuts covering his arms and legs. Blood has stained and dried on his robes. His skin has started to decompose.

Katara falls to her knees and gets sick on the side of the road. The world is spinning. She crawls to Zuko’s side, ignoring the horrific smell that burns her nose the closer she gets, and strokes his hair back with a quivering hand. She’s shaking with rage. With anguish. 

She’d been given another chance at a life with Zuko, but it had all amounted to nothing. He’s dead again—only this had to have been an agonizing death—and it’s _her fault_ that he’d suffered.

Just as Zuko had spent so much of his first life consumed by self-loathing, she knows in that moment that going to spend the rest of her second life doing the same.

They always did mirror each other too well.

She unsheathes the sword at her side, runs a finger over the inscription he’d made for her. His voice is in her ear: _how could you make a decision like that without even asking me?_

 _I’m sorry,_ her heart whispers, _I’m so, so sorry._

_____________

_“Goodbyes hurt the most when the story was not finished.”_  
~ Anonymous

_____________

WHITECHAPEL, 1888

His name is Xander and he’s a florist.

The shop is a family-owned, family-run business. As the eldest of five siblings, Xander has always known that he would take over once his mother passes on. She’s got a lot of life left in her, though, and while he’s infinitely grateful for that, he’s not nearly as happy with the work he’s been tasked to do in the interim.

He’s never been good at connecting with people — _unfathomably awkward,_ his sisters love to tease, and it’s only made worse by the ghastly birthmark that covers one side of his face — but his family’s livelihood depends on how well he does just that. How well he can exceed customers’ expectations.

What works in his favor, however, is that the vast majority of the business they receive pertains to matters of floriography. He’s studied the language of flowers for several years now, so he’s unerringly confident and efficient at it. If a customer comes in looking to express ambition, they’d be on their way with a hollyhock in hand moments later. If a customer came in hoping to thank a friend for their understanding, a hydrangea would do just fine. 

He’s equally well-versed in barbed insults and clandestine declarations of love. 

Xander spends most of his free time inventing stories in his mind about those that pass through. He imagines his are far more entertaining than the reality, anyway.  
He starts doubting the veracity of the sentiment when, one fine morning in August, two young women burst into his shop. He can hear their lively chatter as they make their way through the aisles. One is pushing the other to be more forward with the object of her affections, while the other is admonishing her friend for being far too free with her favor. It is, he realizes, a conversation most unfit for polite society. And it’s incredibly amusing, even if the implication behind their words make the tips of his ears turn pink.

It’s not long before they approach the counter. The young woman in an emerald green dress jostles her companion forward—a young woman in a deep blue dress. When the latter meets his eyes, Xander is momentarily taken by her beauty. 

“Good afternoon,” the young woman starts, hesitant, “I hear that the artisans of this shop are well-versed in the art of floriography. Are the rumors to be believed?”

He gives her what he hopes is a good-natured smile in return.

“We are indeed, and I’m chief amongst the experts.”

Something like a challenge sparks in the blue-clad woman’s eyes. “Oh? Might you consider proving that claim?”

Xander can’t help himself, especially if she’s intent upon making it a matter of his honor. “It would be my pleasure.”

The woman in blue turns on her heel, walking down one of the aisles; Xander has no choice but to follow her.

“In your expert opinion,” she drawls, “what would this flower signify?”

She points at a blue love-in-the-mist. Xander arches an eyebrow at her.

“It means, _you puzzle me.”_

She blinks at him. 

“How fitting. And what if I wished to accuse someone of being prideful?”

He does his best to tamp down an amused smile as he guides her over to the orange lilies. The woman’s green-clad companion bustles over and catches her friend’s arm.

“Catherine, don’t you dare press the man too much! We need him.”

The woman in blue — _Catherine,_ he supposes — offers her friend a most unladylike scowl but acquiesces. Xander’s almost disappointed; he’d been enjoying their banter. He keeps his eyes on Catherine as he speaks.

“Am I to believe your intentions in coming today weren’t to question the integrity of my word, then?”

The green-clad lady looks absolutely horrified. Catherine, however, recognizes it as the joke it was meant to be. Her eyes sparkle with merriment.

“Unfortunately,” she replies, ignoring another one of her friend’s scandalized glares, “My friend and I are both seeking to make advantageous marriages, so we’d like to woo the men at court with flowers. The secret language of desire.”

Her tone suggests she’d rather do anything but. Xander, evermore intrigued, guides them throughout the store in picking bouquets. Maidenhair ferns for _secret love,_ calla lilies for _magnificent beauty,_ hyacinth for _playfulness._ Catherine insists on adding lady’s slippers — _win me_ — while her friend adds mint to showcase her virtue. When all is said and done, the two pay him far more than he deserved for his help (“for your troubles,” the friend sighs), and go on their way.

Xander thinks of orange lilies for the rest of the day.  
_____

One week later, Catherine comes into the shop with a much older woman. After a brief but heated conversation ending in _honestly, mother, I’m not going to destroy my virtue with the shopkeeper,_ Catherine flounces up to the counter alone.

“The flowers were a big hit with the gentlemen,” she says, by way of greeting.

Xander offers her a polite smile in return. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“I’m not. Do you have anything I can use to ward off some of my suitors? Something subtle enough that my wretched stepmother won’t be able to figure out what I’m doing?”

The polite smile on Xander’s face curves into a private smirk. 

“I’m sure I can think of something.” Then, for her stepmother’s benefit, “Right this way, Miss.” 

Catherine follows at his heels. Her stepmother remains caught in the beauty of a nearby marigold bush. 

They’re alone amongst the flowers, and Xander thinks (not for the first time) about how lovely her eyes are.

“Let’s start with cyclamen,” he points to a dainty, pink-petaled flower, “for separation.” 

Catherine nods, thoughtful, as he takes her through the rest. Snap-weed for _don’t touch me,_ amaranthus for _love lies bleeding,_ and striped carnations for _no._ The resulting bouquet is deceptively sweet-looking—a magnificent swirl of pinks and whites—but the significance of each flower is nothing short of vicious. By the time they’re all gathered together, Catherine is absolutely delighted.

Catherine’s mother pays for the bouquet, beaming all the while about what a kind young gentleman Xander must be to guide Catherine through such courtly graces as floriography. It’s all he can do to avoid laughing outright. 

After her mother has turned to leave—and just before Catherine joins her—he sneaks her a single red fuchsia. She accepts the flower, turning it over in her hands for a moment. The look on her face is one of pure puzzlement. 

He doesn’t tell her what it means; he thinks she’s the kind of person to want to figure it out on her own. 

She casts a lingering look back at him as she exits.  
_____

It’s not even two full days before she comes back in again, running ahead of a gaggle of her friends clad in bright dresses. She’s almost out of breath by the time she reaches the counter, but the grin on her face is one of unadulterated happiness.

 _“I like your taste?_ After I commandeered your time and attention to help me subtly break things off with strangers? That’s honestly what you were going for?” 

He shrugs. “You’re the most fun I’ve had in weeks.”

The laugh that escapes her is bright. “I’m glad I can be of service.”

Catherine’s friends bound into the shop before he can respond. Their voices instantly fill the space with wild chatter. One of them calls Xander over — _excuse me, sir, but how might I express a most ardent devotion towards a gentleman caller_ — and before long, he finds himself helping multiple ladies of the court. 

It takes the better part of an hour to work through their concerns and to quell their unending curiosities. Some of them are stunned to learn that flowers can have multiple meanings, that their significance can even shift entirely depending on whatever else is in the same bouquet. 

He tells them of a customer he’d helped awhile back, a nameless politician who had wanted to gift flowers to a secret lover. He sent the older man on his way with a bouquet of hydrangeas. To the world around them, it signified frigidity and rejection. His lover, however, saw it for its true meaning: gratefulness at being understood. 

One of the young women sighs dreamily. 

“It must be incredibly romantic to carry on that way,” says another.

Xander nods gruffly. Something about their comments has made him feel skittish, all of a sudden.

Yet after the women collect their flowers and are preparing to leave, Catherine deposits a purple hydrangea on the counter.

“For you,” she says. “I’ll let you figure out which meaning I intended.”

She leaves without looking back. Xander’s eyes stay on her the whole time.

_____

The more she comes in, the more they’re able to talk. After the fourth visit, Catherine learns his name. _(Xander,_ she repeats, as if tasting the name on her tongue, _huh. It suits you.)_ By the seventh, Xander knows a great deal about her. 

Catherine tells him that she’s a member of high society, though she absolutely hates it. Her parents, a pair of middle-aged Brits who had adopted Catherine during infancy, leave Catherine entirely to her own devices. As long as she didn’t humiliate the family name, Catherine is largely free to do whatever she so wanted. She talks here and there about being aborigines. About being a staunch supporter of the APS. _The moment I turned eighteen, I joined the Aborigines Protection Society. We’re going to make some real change here, I think. Or we’d better, at least, because if I have to hear one more high society ninny talk about my ‘exotic’ looks—_

He, in turn, tells her of his five sisters and how protective he is over them. How he’s meant to take over the florist shop someday. How he spends a great deal of his time inventing stories about the lives of his customers as a fun little way to entertain himself. Catherine is an attentive listener, and her face lights up with a mischievous grin upon hearing of his people-watching game.

They play it together on her eighth visit. 

They start trading flowers at the end of each visit, too. Xander gives her allium for _unity,_ then an azalea for _please take care of yourself,_ then a bell of Ireland for _support._ She leaves him an ipomoea _(I attach myself to you),_ then a white clover _(think of me),_ then a kennedia _(intellectual beauty)._ They almost always make him blush to the tips of his ears, which she seems to take a special kind of delight in. 

She’s always crowing about making him blush, about how fun it is to get a reaction out of him. After several more weeks of this sort of back-and-forth, he decides to give her a taste of her own medicine. 

This is how he (stupidly, idiotically, embarrassingly, awfully) winds up handing her a gloxinia. 

Catherine stares at the flower on the counter before her. It’s as though she’s seen a ghost. She opens and closes her mouth a few times but says nothing. He’s rendered the most talkative woman he’s ever met utterly speechless. 

He can’t keep looking at her like this—the whole thing is unfortunate, and if he stares any longer, he might do something stupid like insist it’s all a joke—so he does the next best thing. That, naturally, means scurrying off to a distant corner of the shop to help a particularly perplexed customer. For the next twenty minutes.

By the time he makes it back to the counter, Catherine is long gone. He realizes that she hasn’t left a flower waiting for him.

Something sinks in his chest.  
_____

The next time she returns, a week later, she’s with a gentleman around her age. Xander feels something strange twist in his gut at the sight of them together—at the sight of her laughing, smiling, bantering with someone else, especially after he’s made his affection for her so clear—so he begs one of his sisters to take over the counter before she can spot him. 

Xander knows he has no claim to Catherine’s heart, knows he has no right to be jealous, but he knows his heart will break if he has to pretend that he doesn’t care about her the way that he does. 

Victoria, the second oldest, calls him pathetic. She proceeds to the front of the shop anyway.

“How might I be of assistance today, Miss?”

Catherine blinks up at the young woman behind of the counter. She seems mystified. Xander watches her eyes scan the shop, notes the brief look of concern that flashes across her face. (Privately, selfishly, he hopes that it’s for him.)

The man next to Catherine notices she’s distracted. He whispers something into her ear, chuckling, and whatever he says works. Her focus shifts back to him. She swats his arm, glowering, and proceeds to ask Victoria for assistance.

Thirty minutes later, Victoria comes to fetch him from the back room. 

“You can stop cowering. She’s gone now.”

“Right.” Xander clears his throat. “Did she, ah, leave anything for me, by any chance?”

“No. I’m sorry.” 

Victoria pats him once on the shoulder, then goes to join the rest of his sisters in a game of whist.  
_____

For the next week, Xander has made it something of a sport to avoid Catherine. He sees the bright colors of her dresses from a distance, long before she ever sees him, and he chooses to flee to the safety of the inventory room like the coward that he is.

Each time, she looks increasingly frustrated. Each time, she only seems to buy one or two flowers.  
_____

He should have known that the silence wouldn’t last forever. 

A week and a half after the now-infamous gloxinia incident, he’s just finished sweeping petals off the floor. The sun is setting outside, and the soft light it’s casting makes the flowers around him seem to glow. The moment of peace is all but broken when someone storms into his shop.

He looks up, about to tell the customer that he’s just locking up for the evening, when he sees her. His eyes instantly dart to the back of the room. As though he could get away with running away right in front of her.

“So, you are avoiding me.” 

“It’s not—I just really—I thought it’d be easier this way.”

“Why on earth did you believe _that?”_

A quick glance at her face shows that she looks absolutely murderous. 

“You balked at my, uh, ‘love at first sight’ confession, and you came here with another man, so,” he says, helpless.

“First of all,” she seethes, “that man was my brother, _you idiot._ Second of all, you didn’t even give me the opportunity to respond to your confession.”

Before he can form a proper response, she all but shoves a bouquet into his hands. He’s able to make out ambrosia flowers, arbutus blooms, gardenias, and jonquils before his mind short-circuits.

Each flower says the same thing, over and over and over again: _your affection is reciprocated._

It’s his turn to be stunned into silence.

Catherine waits all of five seconds before issuing an impatient, “Well?” 

Xander unfreezes. He steps around the angry woman before him, ignoring the indignant squawk she gives him as he lowers the blinds. By the time he’s done—only a few moments later—the only light in the shop is from the sconces along the walls. He turns back to face her, eyes catching on the way her hair shines, her dress glitters, her eyes appear as though they were on fire. She looks loveliest of all in the candlelight. He tells her so.

She scoffs, but her cheeks turn the prettiest shade of pink he thinks he’s ever seen. 

“Is it okay? That I’ve lowered the blinds, I mean? I swear my singular intention is to give us privacy, but if it makes you uncomfortable, especially being here unchaperoned, I can raise them again.” 

“If I were nervous about being alone with you, I wouldn’t have flouted all societal convention to come here alone,” she counters, indignant.

He tries desperately not to overthink his response. He doesn’t want to say the wrong thing, of course, but he _also_ doesn’t want to make things awkward between them by waiting too long to respond. 

This, of course, leads him to the undesirable conclusion of overthinking _about_ overthinking.

Catherine has approximately no time for his tomfoolery.

“Xander,” she huffs, her voice gentler now, “I wasn’t hoping to tarnish my virtue—at least not yet—but I was hoping that something would happen between us that would make the risk worthwhile.”

“Okay,” he says, even though his mouth is the driest it’s ever been.

She closes the distance between them before he can think twice about it. One of her hands catches his wrist, and he knows his pulse stutters under her fingertips. The victorious little look on her face is proof enough of that. He takes his free arm and tugs her closer, his hand trailing idly along the bodice of her gown. 

“Finally, we’re getting somewhere,” she grins, and he’s completely overcome by how beautiful she is for the umpteenth time.

He leans down almost unwittingly, almost unaware that he’s even doing anything at all. 

His lips brush against hers. She presses forward, just a bit more, and then they’re kissing. 

Her lips are warm and indulgent against his. His fingers tighten around her waist of their own accord, and she hums happily against his mouth at the feeling. He tugs her closer still. She swipes her tongue across his lower lip, and before he can fully register the low noise he makes somewhere in the back of his throat, he opens his mouth to her.

Having her here like this—settled in his arms, glowing in the candlelight, the perfume of flowers drifting through the air, all with the unforgettable knowledge that she loves him back—feels too good to be true. 

He wants this moment to last forever. He thinks it might, even, until there’s a blinding flash of light behind his eyelids.

He pulls back to stare at her, alarmed, and then a name enters into his mind unbidden and consumes his thoughts entirely. 

_Katsura._

Then another name, this one even more significant, even more overwhelming than the last: _Katara._

Flashes of memories, flashes of _other lifetimes,_ play out before his eyes. He can’t tear his eyes away from her face. He remembers everything.

Which is why he kisses her again. 

It’s slow and sweet, yearning and impassioned, heartbreaking and heart-warming all at once. She sighs his name — his real name, his true name, _Zuko_ — against his lips.

When he finally pulls away, they’re both crying.

“You died,” she says, hiccoughing, “you _died,_ and I thought that our last lifetime together was it for us both.”

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice as gentle as he can make it, “dying sucked for me too.” 

It startles a teary laugh out of her. He drags a fingertip across her cheek, swiping an errant teardrop away.

“It looks like we’ve been given another chance,” he murmurs, considering. “Do you think this is the last one we’ll have?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What were the witch’s exact words? Do you remember?”

Katara thinks for a moment. Then, “She said, ‘I want you to meet him, to fall in love, to get married. To do it all properly.’”

They’re both silent for a long while. 

Zuko figures it out first.

“Whichever lifetime we’re finally able to be together. Whichever time we can get married, start a life together, live unencumbered—that’ll be it for us.”

Katara’s eyes widen. _“Tui and La,_ Zuko, you’re right.”

The ancient phrase is so endearingly familiar that it makes his heart ache. He takes her hands in his, unable to resist, and squeezes. She squeezes back.

“I hope it’s this one,” she says, "I'm tired of waiting."

“Me too.”  
_____

It isn’t.

Not even five days later, Catherine is walking home by herself — _you can’t walk me back, Zuko, or else people are going to talk about us. It’s not a big risk, really, I promise_ — when she’s accosted by an unknown man on the streets of Whitechapel.

He murders and dismembers her just two blocks away from the flower shop.

All of the local newspapers speculate tirelessly about who her assailant might be, and national newspapers follow suit once more women start dying.

In less than a month’s time, they’ve even coined a moniker for Catherine’s killer.

 _Jack the Ripper._  
_____

Xander knows this means that he’ll see Catherine again in another time, another life. 

Nevertheless, it doesn’t ease the ache deep in his chest as he watches her coffin settle into an unmarked grave. He can’t even bring himself to cry at the funeral. He just feels empty.

Worst of all, though, he has to keep on living in spite of it.

_____________

 _“Those we love never truly leave us. There are things death cannot touch.”_  
~ Jack Thorne  
______________

NEW YORK CITY, 2022

It ends as it begins: with the myriad of loves from their very first life together surrounding them. 

The first time Katara stumbles into the tiny Jasmine Dragon tea house, she’s just getting off of a double shift at Lenox Hill Hospital. 

It’s the third double she’s pulled this week, so she’s more than a little bleary-eyed. She’s not even sure she could tell someone what day it is anymore.

“Hi,” she hesitates, “I’m sorry to be a bother.”

The older man behind the counter startles at the sound of her voice. It’s a wonder that he doesn’t drop the porcelain teapot he’s cleaning. 

“Not at all. How can I be of service?”

It is, decidedly, the wrong question to ask. Katara starts rambling. 

“I know it’s nighttime and you’re probably closing in five minutes, and I’m being the absolute worst by coming in right after you’ve probably cleaned up shop, but I’ve had a headache for the last five days—I’m in my first year of residency at Lenox Hill, so I’ve been busy lately—and I really need something that’s going to make me feel a little bit less like dying. I promise I’ll give you a $50 tip to make up for the trouble.”

The man blinks at her like she’s grown a second head. Then, mercifully, he smiles.

“No allergies?”

“None.”

“Caffeinated or decaf?”

“The first one, please.”

“Sit wherever you’d like. I know just what to make.”

The tea shop is small but quaint. She takes a seat along the periphery of the room, eyeing the art installations that stretch down the length of the store. She fixates on the abstract painting she’s sitting under, a swirl of earthy tones and paintbrush splatters. It makes her feel calm.

A few moments pass before a steaming mug of tea is set on the table in front of her. 

“It’s on the house,” the older man says, a gleam in his eye, “I know how much first-year residents make.”

Katara opens her mouth to argue back, but it quickly turns into a yawn. 

“If you decide you want to thank me, keep coming back. It’s simple to open a shop, but it’s another thing entirely to keep it open.”

She wraps her hands around the porcelain mug in front of her, too weary to focus on anything except how it warms the palms of her hands. She notes (perhaps belatedly) that the tea smells fruity. 

A hesitant sip. Katara’s world promptly stops spinning on its axis.

It’s the best tea she’s ever had—and she’s pretty sure she’d be saying that even if she hadn’t been half-dead after a rough week. The first flavor that hits her is the bright tang of berries. It mellows into something almondy. 

She tells him as much, and he breaks out into a wide grin.

“Kamairi tamaryokucha. It’s one of my nephew’s favorites.”

The man lets Katara rest as he cleans. Next thing she knows, she’s very gently shaken awake.

“I’m about to close up, dear,” he says, “but please come back any time you’d like.”

_____

She’s back again two days later.

The Jasmine Dragon is busy in the morning. The tables are crowded with people (awake even earlier than she had to be, no doubt), and the employees are putting in their best effort to keep up with the mounting demand. 

The line creeps forward. By the time she gets to the register, she sees that the middle-aged man from the other night isn’t working today. 

Instead, a man who looks about her age meets her eyes.

She’s startled for a moment—there’s an angry red scar running down the left side of his face, which catches her off-guard—and it appears luck is not on her side today because he definitely notices her reaction.

“Can I help you?”

His voice is on the colder side of civil, and Katara flushes with embarrassment. 

“Hi,” she winces, then keeps her gaze trained on his one good eye, “I was here the other night. I got a really good tea. It tasted like berries and almonds, and I’m pretty sure its name starts with a T? Kamairi T-something?”

He nods. 

“Got it. Name for the cup?”

“Uh, Katara.”

He scribbles something down and wordlessly takes her credit card.

“Next in line!”

His attention remains on the customers behind her, on taking their orders, until he’s got a line of cups waiting. A pink-clad coworker takes over the register as he starts to make drinks. 

He tops off Katara’s cup and hands it over, eyes lingering on her face. She doesn’t quite know why—that is, until she reads the cup.

 _Katarina,_ it says, in a precise scrawl. She levels an incredulous gaze at him. “Did you just intentionally pull a Starbucks on me?”

He merely offers here an unaffected shrug in return, then continues on with the orders.

The indignance she feels follows her into work that day. 

_____

Katara returns to the Jasmine Dragon the next morning.

Grumpy McGrumpFace is at the register again, and the corner of his mouth quirks up in a little smirk when he sees her.

“Can I help you?”

“Kamairi tamaryokucha tea,” she declares.

It’s only when he arches an eyebrow at her that her triumph at remembering the name of the drink deflates. 

“Please,” she adds, meek.

He doesn’t ask for her name, but he looks a bit too amused for Katara’s liking as he writes something down on the cup. She holds her breath until she gets her tea, and then she’s casting a pained look up at him.

“Oh, so I’m Katherine today?”

Another bored shrug and the ghost of a smile is all she gets in return. She casts her eyes down to his nametag—hoping for some sort of retribution, some way she can horrifically mispronounce his own name—but he unclips it before she can. He levels a decidedly unimpressed look at her.

“This isn’t over, you know,” she hisses, and his lips twist into something like a challenge. 

_____

She comes back every day that week.

Always first thing in the morning, always wearing a fresh pair of scrubs. 

She starts getting to know some of the regulars that wait in line with her. There’s Toph, who works for the Parks and Recreation Department; Suki, a self-defense instructor at the local gym; and Aang, a volunteer EMT. 

She also gets to know some of the Jasmine Dragon’s employees. Ty Lee is a spectacle to behold as a chaji server, but she’s also startlingly good at making tea recommendations. Mai—Ty Lee’s girlfriend—is much more introverted but is easily the most efficient brewer of the bunch. She even learns that the older man she’d met on her first visit is named Iroh, and that he owns the tea house. 

The only person she doesn’t learn the name of is the grumpy cashier himself. Whenever he sees her coming, he surreptitiously detaches his nametag and slides it into his pocket. The others refuse to tell her his name, either.

It’s some Rumpelstiltskin-level bullshit.

The names on her cups, meanwhile, get worse and worse. She becomes Catalina, then Catapult, then Cantaloupe. The last one actually makes Mai laugh out loud when she sees it, which startles Mai just as much as it does everyone else.

Katara refuses to acknowledge that she’s sorely losing their little war, just as staunchly as she refuses to acknowledge that the same war is quickly becoming one of her favorite parts of the day.

She spends a disconcerting amount of time trying to figure out Grumpy’s name, but _Jasmine Dragon handsome man red scar on face_ yields approximately 0 results on Facebook. It’s a pity.

_____

Katara starts the following week preparing for what she already knows will be a truly heinous double shift, so she heads into the Jasmine Dragon an hour earlier than usual. Apparently even Grumpy hasn’t arrived yet.

The tea house is slow at this hour—it’s barely six in the morning, after all—so Katara makes idle conversation with Ty Lee about how her residency’s going. Mai, for her part, refills Katara’s cup several times over.

By the time the clock strikes seven, Ty Lee has an offer for her.

“If you’d like me to drop some tea off during any of your double shifts, let me know. The hospital’s right down the block, so it’s no big deal.”

Katara’s eyes widen to an almost-comical degree. 

“Wait, you guys deliver?”

“This is a limited-time offer because we pity you,” Mai fires back, “Take it or leave it.”

“You can choose whether you want to text me or not,” Ty Lee continues, bright, “but you’ve been a lot of fun for all of us! Plus, you’ve been good for business. The least we can do is help you out.”

Katara wordlessly hands Ty Lee her phone, growing a bit misty-eyed. 

“Cut it out,” Mai says, aghast, “People are gonna see you crying and avoid coming in here.”

By the time she leaves for work, Katara’s feeling a lot better about her double.

_____

It lasts about twelve hours into her shift. The hospital is absolutely slammed; it feels as though each new hour brings even more patients than the one before it. The sharp smell of disinfectant lingers in her nose, and her feet twinge with pain after running around all day. 

The best and worst part of specializing in internal medicine is the diversity of practice. She’s shuffled around through different wards in order to manage the sudden influx of patients—the joys of being a first-year residential internist, she supposes.

By hour twenty-four, Katara’s sitting on a cot in the on-call room. It’s a rare moment of peace—one that she’s half-convinced will be cut short by the sharp ring of her pager—so she decides to take advantage of the little time she has. She texts Ty Lee.

 _SOS,_ she writes, _I’m probably going to die without some caffeine soon._

Then, _this is katara btw._

Not even one minute later, she gets a text back.

_Mai’s gonna make something that’ll pick u right up!! Come 2 the front lobby in 10 min._

Katara thanks the spirits that Ty Lee was so quick to check her phone and hops off of her cot. She spends a couple of minutes stretching—something to keep her awake, to work out the crick in her neck—before deciding to head downstairs.

The door to the on-call room swings shut behind her. Katara glances at her pager again, but it remains silent. She all but books it downstairs.

The lobby isn’t nearly as crowded as she’d thought it might be. Some people mill about—a panicked-looking man sprinting to the maternity ward with an _it’s a boy!_ balloon, a young girl fiercely clinging onto her grandmother’s hand by the cafeteria—but most of the seats in the room remain empty. Katara takes a seat, closes her eyes, and waits for Ty Lee’s cheery voice.

Someone takes the seat next to her. 

Katara resigns herself to the fact that she’s probably about to have a conversation with another patient’s well-meaning but very ill-informed family member. The reality she sees upon opening her eyes is somehow both infinitely better and infinitely worse.

“Hey,” the grumpy cashier says, his voice just on the pleasant side of raspy, “I heard you needed something that’d keep you from dying on your feet. This should do it.”

There’s not an ounce of hostility in his tone—just wariness, a mild sort of discomfort—and that realization surprises her. She ekes out a surprisingly measured _thanks_ in response as she takes the cup from his hands. 

(If she blushes when her fingers accidentally brush against his, neither of them mentions it.) 

She spends the next few seconds searching for the neat scrawl of his handwriting on the cup. Her eyes light up when she finds it—

 _Caterpillar._ Next to a tiny doodle of a butterfly. 

Katara snorts. 

“I’m glad I haven’t lost my touch yet,” he says, a pleased little smile crossing his face.

She can’t help but smile back. 

“Not yet,” she agrees. And then, because she wants to keep the goodwill alive between them, adds, “I both hate and love all the names you’ve come up with so far.”

He stares at her for a long moment, his expression growing serious again. (If she were a painter, she thinks she’d want to commit the stark planes of his face to canvas. His cheekbones — his _eyes_ — are unnerving in their intensity.) 

“So—”

Her pager beeps before she can finish the thought. She whips it out from the holster on her hip. _Code Gray: On Ji. Rm. 324._

The man sitting next to her abruptly stands up. 

“Go save the day,” he says, “but, uh, feel free to swing by the tea house once you finish up. I’m pretty sure Ty Lee wants to hear how your day has been.”

Katara _wishes_ she could stay here and watch the reddening of his cheeks forever. 

“We’ll see,” she replies.

And then she turns and runs.

_____

It’s the middle of the afternoon—four hours after her run-in with Broody Tea House Guy—when Katara finally gets out of the hospital. She’s half-dead on her feet again, but true to her word, she stops by the Jasmine Dragon on her way back home.

She slumps into a seat by the window, throwing a wave over her shoulder to Ty Lee and Mai. The distant sounds of tea brewing are a wonderful lullaby; her eyes slip shut of their own volition.

She almost doesn’t notice when, a few minutes later, someone slides into the chair across from hers. Somewhat begrudgingly, Katara opens her eyes to a to-go cup in front of her. And the cashier sitting in the seat opposite hers. 

The first thing she thinks is that he must be on break. He’s ditched the traditional apron over his clothes in favor of a simple red tee shirt and dark jeans. His hair’s down, too. Her second thought is that this is a criminally good look for him.

“Don’t worry,” he says, hesitant, “I don’t think any of us plan on keeping you here. We just wanted to give you this before you go sleep for the next twelve years.”

She glances down at the to-go cup in front of her. The name on the side of this one reads _Kit Kat Bar._

“Is this one just because I’m so sweet?”

The man with the scar scoffs, but the faint blush on his cheeks is proof enough of the reaction she was looking for. Satisfied, Katara stands up, winks, and walks out of the teahouse before he can even try to save face.

_____

Katara realizes that she’s practically _skipping_ to the Jasmine Dragon the next day, bouncing on her heels as she waits in the insufferably long line in front of her.

Like a pathetic girl with a crush. 

Before she can decide whether to analyze that thought further, the cashier’s face comes into view. His eyes lock onto hers as he leans down to get something for Ty Lee, crouching behind the counter.

He bumps into Ty Lee on the way back up, and the both of them stumble inelegantly before righting themselves.

Mai rolls her eyes. “Amateurs,” she says, though she looks back and forth between Katara and the cashier like somehow, _she’s_ responsible.

“Totally my fault,” he responds, clearing his throat before risking a glance back up at Katara again. Katara, for her part, is valiantly fighting a laugh.

When she reaches the counter, she pauses, then asks in a quiet voice, “You okay? Looked like you were a couple steps away from falling before.”

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug, cheeks flushed. “I’ve had worse. Want Mai to surprise you with a specialty brew again?” At her nod, he scrawls something quickly on the cup, keeping it turned away from her. She can feel the weight of his eyes on her when she picks up the to-go cup and can’t help the grin that stretches across her face at the _Catastrophe_ across the bottom, complete with a frowny face to match.

The next day she enters in the middle of the morning rush, barely able to get inside the tea house thanks to the foot traffic, and Katara barely has time to issue him a, “Hey,” before he moves her cup along. The cup she gets that day just says _Katydid,_ along with a tiny grasshopper next to it. Katara laughs, notes the way his eyes flit up to her as she does. She gives him a thumbs up before heading off to work.

_____

On and on it goes. When Sokka and Suki visit, Katara drags them both to the Jasmine Dragon. Eventually, abashedly, the cashier tells Katara his name. _Zuko,_ he says, bringing a hand up to the back of his neck. _It’s a nice name, _she thinks. _It suits him.___

__When the holidays roll around months later, Iroh invites them all to the tea house to share a meal together—his employees, along with Katara, Toph, Aang, and even Sokka and Suki. Iroh does all the cooking, all the tea service, and he outright _refuses_ to be helped. It’s charming and frustrating all at once. After the meal, they go around the table giving one another gifts. _ _

__Ty Lee gives Suki a book on auras and divination. Suki pays for Toph’s kickboxing classes for the next two months. Toph offers to treat Sokka and Suki to a four-course meal at a Michelin Star restaurant. Sokka gives Mai a set of holographic throwing knives. Mai gives Aang indoor skydiving tickets—always the daredevil, that one—and Aang buys Zuko a ticket to see a Broadway play he used to see with his mother._ _

__Zuko gives Katara an ulu he bought from an Inuit shop-owner online. He’d requested something be carved into the hilt of the blade, too: a lone gloxinia flower._ _

__He can’t explain _why_ he felt the need to include it, why he paid extra to ensure that the ulu knife was personalized. She can’t explain _why_ the sight of both of those things—the blade and the flower alike—make her so emotional. Nevertheless, they’re both misty-eyed as they pull each other in for a hug._ _

__Officially, Katara pays for a Tea of the Month subscription for Iroh. Unofficially, Katara also pays for the twin dragon tattoo Zuko’s always wanted to get—and gives him a full to-go cup from the tea shop with _Kuzon_ scrawled along the side._ _

__It’s the most fun she’s had in a long time.  
______ _

__She’s known him for close to a year when they finally kiss. He’s just walked her back to her apartment complex with a cup of tea in hand, and the sun is setting behind them, and everything about the moment is so perfect it could be splashed on the cover of a Hallmark movie._ _

__If she’s been honest with herself, she’s been hoping for the chance to kiss him since he first dropped tea off for her at the hospital—maybe even earlier than that. She only ever held off because she was worried that it’d be awkward. That she’d be coming on too strong. That she’d be ruining their friendship. Instead it feels like a homecoming._ _

__She barely has time to wonder _why_ before they both remember. _ _

__She’s wanted him in this lifetime before she’d ever remembered their previous lives; caring for him — _loving him_ — has been something of a second nature to her for months now. Yet the knowledge that her feelings have always been reciprocated, the knowledge that comes with the unyielding certainty that he has loved her for centuries, makes her want him more than ever before._ _

__She tugs at his hands, insistent, and that’s all it takes for him to come up to her apartment._ _

__As if he could ever say no to her._ _

__She can’t even wait as long as it takes to fumble with the lock of her front door; the second it opens, she’s got the collar of his shirt in her hands and her lips are on his. He crowds her up against the door, trailing open-mouthed kisses along her neck, and it’s enough to make her knees go weak._ _

__“I’ve wanted you for _lifetimes,”_ he sighs, his breathing uneven against her collarbone, “I’ve loved you for centuries. And I’m okay with waiting for physicality if—”_ _

__“Fuck waiting,” she pants, “I adore you. I _need_ you.”_ _

__He makes a low noise in the back of his throat before meeting her in a long, slow kiss._ _

__It would be saccharine, even downright romantic, if she weren’t already trying to undo the buttons on his pants. She guides him towards her bedroom, laughing as he struggles to tug his pants off. She quiets again as he tugs his shirt off. He is incomprehensibly, heartbreakingly, utterly beautiful._ _

__“See something you like?” His tone is playful, but his eyes are dark and hungry._ _

__She’d give anything for the cocky smile on his face to stay in place forever. She loves him. _So much.__ _

__“Obviously,” she grins, her voice rough with desire, “c’mere already.”_ _

__He obliges willingly._ _

________ _

__

__The two of them finally come up for air a full two days later, solely because they both have to set off to work. Katara’s going to the hospital. Zuko’s going to the tea shop during the day, but he’s studying for the GRE at night. He’s decided that he wants to be a social worker — _better late than never,_ he shrugs, and she swats his arm because it’s _such_ a perfect career choice for him and she wishes he could’ve had the opportunity to do that centuries ago._ _

__Katara heads back to the tea shop after her shift, joining Zuko in a booth by the windows. Iroh, Ty Lee, Mai. Aang and Toph are all there already, chattering animatedly by the counter. Zuko finally glances up from his textbooks when she joins him, offering her a warm smile that makes her heart flip._ _

__They’re surrounded by their loved ones. They're laughing and joking with each other. They're at peace._ _

__“How’s it going?” Katara asks, and he opens his mouth to respond._ _

__“Twinketoes and I are kicking his ass with the sciences,” Toph calls out instead, “but he’ll get there.”_ _

__Zuko’s mouth twitches into a small smile. She takes his hand across the table and sighs._ _

__“I’m glad this lifetime is it for us,” she says, her voice low just for him, “It feels the closest to the first one.”_ _

__“How so?”_ _

__“Well,” she replies, haughty, “I get to be the world’s best healer, and you get to support and protect your people—in this case, mostly children from abusive families.”_ _

__“The only thing that’s missing is our bitter rivalry.”_ _

__She tilts her head and looks back to him with a smile._ _

__“I think I can live without that part,” she replies, and is rewarded by an absolutely blinding grin._ _

__He leans forward to kiss her, the moon shining on their faces. They steadfastly ignore the mounting catcalls that rise from their friends in the shop._ _

__Far from bothered, the only thing in Katara’s heart is a profound sense of joy._ _

__“One day,” Zuko murmurs, his gaze impossibly soft, _“in this lifetime,_ we’re going to get married. We’ll start a family together, if you want. And even when we die, decades and decades from now, we’ll be able to look back on all of our years together and be happy.”_ _

__“A perfect plan,” she acknowledges, her heart about ready to burst. “Someday we’ll die. But first, we’ll live.”_ _

__There are still bound to be problems that come up in the years to come — _of course there are,_ life can never be too easy for too long — but they’ll deal with them together. For now, Katara lets herself hold her best friend’s hand and take a moment just to breathe with him. _ _

__And why shouldn’t she?_ _

__They’ve got all the time in the world.  
_____________ _

__

___“You're mine," she whispered. "Mine, as I'm yours. And if we die, we die. All men must die, Jon Snow. But first, we'll live.”_  
~ George R.R. Martin_ _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! I hope y'all enjoyed it.
> 
> (and if you did, it would mean the world if ya dropped a lil comment down below! that sweet sweet validation is the driving force behind all my work.)
> 
> Until next time.


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